


Begin.

by orphan_account



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: F/M, Rape, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaret thinks she can win. So does a sixteen-year-old Francis. Both lose a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin.

It seems not at all difficult to explain the attraction that mature older women hold for adolescents. Their worldliness- their understanding of exactly what men desire- the ripe fullness of their breasts, the appropriate broadness of their hips, so different from the slender innocence of young village girls or milkmaids.

Or so they say.

Francis's attraction at age sixteen to Margaret Lennox, eleven years his senior, was very simple; the lure of freedom, and an escape from a damp cold dungeon cell where the prison guards took uncomfortable liberties from their captured.

Word had gone around very swiftly that the pretty young blond in the second cell to the left was a second son, unlikely to bring repercussions to the House if he were mistreated.

The upside was that such rumors reached the mistress of the house as well.

Unless it wasn't an upside.

Margaret Lennox, when a newly washed blonde boy with recently reset bones minced into her room like a restless baby leopard, raised her eyebrows and discreetly licked her lips.

"My Lady Douglas," he said, glowing like an angel. So viciously young, his eyes flashed at her in some invisible defiance. He was prepared to play games.

So they would play games. They exchanged conversation before Margaret delicately pulled out a board, coquettishly just with the tip of her nails. He watched her with those hypnotizing blue eyes, and she ached- yes. For that... she wanted him arched and splayed and begging, that adolescent composure shaken, that infantile intellect scrambled. Was he a virgin? He may be. He had an air about him of one who shudderingly kept to his books, on his own private tower. A second son...

The Crawfords of Culter would lose something that day, although they would never know it. It was when Francis Crawford of Lymond, eyes flashing at her, checked her and showed absolutely no smugness at all.

For that she would destroy him.

Before the game had started, she had seen him battle with himself- to win or to lose? She had been vaguely amused that this youngster imagined himself of having any choice. She herself had indulged in a brief idea of letting him win- he was a child, after all- before deciding that he wasn't, and that she would show him from the very beginning who he was dealing with, that his home-grown intellect had nothing in the battlefield. So he would lose twice. She had swept in as white...

The black bishop, the white pawn, the black knight, the white queen, all tangled up and pointing at her king, inexplicably left unguarded from the clever assault. She looked up, at his distant, polite eyes, and invited him to a second game.

She saw the helplessness in his eyes as he accepted, the only alternative to return to that black dungeon where- no. She made it very clear to him that- his eyes said no. But his smile was impeccably welcoming as he slid forward, his body saying yes and yes again, as they sweetly met together, lying in a bed of poisoned honey.

He took her there, in that room, with the chess pieces knocked to the floor. She locked the door before he pressed her to the wall, knowing that the only victory lay in initiative, and his lips sought hers, and he tasted-

He tasted-

Young.

Her fingers spasmed, but instead of pushing him away- her first instinct- she pulled him towards her, touching the exact places where she knew his bruises were, and hurt him- hurt him- until he ground into her, his teeth grinding into her ear and his cock into her belly, and his hands, long and mature and soft- oh so soft- she clasped and determined to ruin.

She fucked him hard. Men did not take Margaret Lennox; Margaret Lennox took them. She took Francis Crawford, commandingly, she toppled his wounded body onto the floor and stripped him of his robe and pressed into his bruises with her teeth until he cried out, knowing what she wanted. She pinned his arms and sank without warning onto his cock and knew, just knew by the genuine shock in that tortured whimper that she, indeed, was her first.

The quality of his gaze changed, the cynicism that had been present throughout his exchange with her vanished, and the poetry dried from his lips. She bit and licked at them, his soft pink lips like a girl's, and searched his pale long lashes for tears. But there were none. She made it unequivocally clear to him, with the press of her thighs and cunt, that he should give in to her- that he should recognize her anger and seek what he could from that dry heart of his to placate her. Cry, she told him, flexing like a fist, and he tore his own lips to search for control. He would find it, in spades, in later years- but here, in her own old stronghold, Margaret Douglas held the upper hand, the chess pieces scattered to hide her humiliation, and here- he had lost for the first time in his life what he would gather and draw to himself to make up for.

Still, in the untrained movements of his body, she found something that she delighted in- an unqualified talent to finding a rhythm, and in a few melting minutes she allowed him to gently overturn their bodies, to press her naked back against the rough carpet, and align their groins together so that every stab he made into her slid against the spot that made her cry out as her husband, or few other lovers, had made her. The helplessness was gone from his eyes now; a trained grimness took its place, and he bent over to nip and lick at one of her breasts as she came for the first, but not last time, that evening.

He was reading her. He was reading her to recognize how much was enough, and when he should come to match. She saw his calculation with unrestrained delight, and wavered in her determination to destroy him. He was- he would make- an extraordinary talented lover.

He closed his eyes when he came, not to keep something from her, but for his own privacy; Margaret found it amusing that he thought he could keep his own mind from her now. Because he was hers, to do as she pleased, the treaties and conduct of war be damned.

He was so young.

"How old are you, chick?" she asked her, withdrawing from him and watching, the pleasure, the undignified way his cock dropped from in between her legs, connected to her by a few strands of semi-transparent liquid. It was- joyous, in fact.

"Seventeen come winter, my lady," he said, courteous to the end, even as he read her eyes and saw something not to his liking.

How delightful. How delightful.

"Give me your hand."

He obeyed, and she studied the smooth, childish lines of it, the extent of his calluses that of a trained scribe's.

She smiled. She thought she knew what she was to do to him.


End file.
